Eulogy
by Queen Kez the Wicked
Summary: There is a theory that the world splits with each decision you make. In one world, you continue on along your chosen path. And in the other world, you take the other path. We’re alive in this world. How do we know we aren’t dead in countless others?
1. In Loving Memory Part One

Eulogy

In Loving Memory - Part One

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"I listened through the cemetery trees.."

'May 21, 1908.' Joseph squinted down at the card, crumpled and creased in his hand. The day's date was printed above a simple drawing of the holy cross, and below, 'Peter Smith 1883 - 1908' was stamped. Joseph shifted uncomfortably his seat and looked back up to the altar, where a balding, solemn-voiced minister continued to drone on. The sun beat down from cloudless skies, suffocating Joseph in his entirely black suit and causing sweat to run into his eyes. He didn't dare wipe it away. 

Joseph flipped the card over, where a prayer had been smudged by his nervous hands. He wiped them on his pants. The minister finished and caught Joseph's eye, who inclined his head and stood, walked smoothly to the altar. He wondered whose idea an outside ceremony was. It was a beautiful day, but too damn hot!

He set the card on the altar and gazed out at those assembled. It was a large crowd, full of Peter's friends, associates, and chance acquaintances. The only family he had to speak of was Mary, his fiancé who was drying her tears, and another old, harsh looking woman who claimed to be his aunt. Peter had been a very likable person, generous and caring. Joseph felt the back of his eyes begin to burn and cleared his throat. 

"Good afternoon," he said after a beat. "You've all come here because you knew Peter Smith at one time or another." He paused, still surveying the crowd. "I knew him for most of his whole life. To say I was his best friend would be to put it lightly. I know you expect me to come up here for the eulogy and say something short and appropriate, maybe a prayer or a poem. That was my plan." He pulled a folded up paper from one of the large pockets in his suit jacket, making sure that those assembled could see it. "But I barely ever stick to plan." With a sigh, Joseph looked at the still folded note, then went over to Peter's casket, lying next to his freshly dug grave, and placed the paper on its top. He returned without a word and took in the crowd again. 

They were all sitting patiently, some fanning themselves, looking bored, others frowning and rapt with attention. 

"I have a new plan, now," he said after a few more moments of silence. "I'm going to tell you a story. I think it's a good one, with all the right elements of a story included, friendship and adventure… dark times and tragedy. Of course, the critics haven't looked at it yet."

A murmur of laughter swept sluggishly through the crowd, a group of people uncertain that any mirth could be considered 'ok' on such a day. But a smile tugged at the corners of Joseph's mouth, and they felt safe. Joseph glanced down to the prayer card again, then turned to look at Peter's casket. At last he faced front again and began to speak, fluidly, at ease.

"I was six when my father was lynched." Another murmur ran through the crowd, but Joseph ignored it. "My mother had not come over from China, and my only uncle was in trouble with the dens. Opium dens. I was alone in Chinatown and a terribly scared little boy. My father had helped to run a laundry business, but the other owners wanted no part of me, and refused to pay for my board or meals. They chased me out immediately, and with nothing but a few extra cents I had found hidden and the torn clothes on my back, I ran. 

__

It's not a question of how fast, far, or long I ran, I ran until I could run no more. Every footstep I heard behind me I thought to be my father's lynchers, or men from the dens, hungry for money or sport. So I put on more speed with each noise, shadow, and face. I never even realized I had run out of Chinatown until I collapsed in a heap, mid-stride, in a totally unfamiliar place. I was out cold, and that's when Peter found me."

-

Joseph laid still, his nerves on fire. He could feel every inch of cobblestone under him, cold and unforgiving, pressing up relentlessly on his new bruises. Tiny shards of glass and small pebbles stuck in his skin from his fall, dirt got into his fresh cuts and sent lines of pain through his limbs. His eyes were closed and breathing steady, save for the occasional sob or hiccup. The muscles in his legs still twitched and protested at the sudden halt in action. 

Joseph, only half-conscious, registered the sound of footsteps approaching. He didn't budge, completely defeated. The footsteps stopped and there was a scrape as their owner sat at the curb near his head. Silence reigned. 

Minutes passed, and Joseph was on the brink of passing into blissful sleep again when something nudged lightly at his shin. He groaned in annoyance, the sound coming from his own mouth surprising enough to wake him up a little more. The foot was hastily withdrawn, but when Joseph refused to move, the boys boot probed his side again. Joseph curled up into a ball, consciousness and thought returning slowly, his legs yelling in protest at the sudden movement. Joseph forced his eyes open, still laying on his side, and raised them up. He could see a pair of worn out boots, proceeded by a stocky pair of legs, dirty knees, and torn knickers above those. A boys face suddenly intruded on the picture, brown eyes wide, eyebrows raised so high Joseph fancied they might fall off, and gaping mouth. 

"You're alive!" the boy told Joseph triumphantly. Joseph blinked and curled up tighter. 

"Yes," he said finally, and let out a heavy sigh. The boys expression turned into one of dumb glee. After a few seconds, when Joseph failed to say more, his face dropped. 

"Why you layin' here?" He asked with honest curiosity, resting his chin on his knees.

"'Cause." 

The stupid grin wormed it's way onto the boy's face again.

"Why?"

"'Cause."

"Why?"

Joseph rolled over. There was a pause, then the boy stood up and walked around to Joseph's other side. He laid down to face him. "Why 'cause?" 

"'Cause I'se tired." 

"Oh." The boy looked at a loss. "Why you tired?"

Joseph screwed up his face, searching for the right words. "Ran," he said finally. "I ran a long ways. I think." He sighed again. "Where're we?"

"Lowah East Side!" The boy said quickly, proudly. He beamed. "Yer from Chinatown."

"Yes."

"You ran a long ways," the boy confirmed.

"Yes." Joseph was getting irritated. He contemplated rolling over again.

"What's yer name?" The boy wriggled into a more comfortable position on the street.

"Joseph. You?"

"Peter. I'm six."

"Six an' a half," Joseph said. Peter looked jealous. 

"Yer _old_ too!" 

"Yup." 

Peter fiddled with his shirt sleeve. "You ever been at 'hattan?" He asked.

Joseph frowned. "Where?"

"Here. Manhattan."

"Oh. Yes. Once." Joseph stretched out and then stood up. Peter followed suit, looking crushed.

"Gotta go home now?"

"Can't go home," Joseph said. 

"Oh." The two stood, still looking at each other. "You got money?"

"Some."

Peter brightened up. "Wanna come stay with me?" 

"Maybe," Joseph shrugged, then, "ok." Peter beamed again.

"Ok! We gotta walk though."

Joseph smiled for the first time. "I'm fast," he said. Peter's eyes flashed.

"Wanna race?" And without waiting for an answer, he took off down the street with a 'woo!' Joseph blinked, then sprinted after him. The sun began to set.

-

The crowd was chuckling. Joseph smiled at them. 

"I overtook him and immediately became lost. It was well past dark when we finally found ourselves at the door to the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House. It was a shabby place complete with a broken window, peeling paint, and a crudely painted sign barely attached to the doorframe, but at that moment it looked like a palace to me. Peter wasted no time in running up and banging on the door.

-

"OPEN UP OPEN UP OPEN UP OPEN UP!" 

Joseph looked alarmed. "Shh!" He hissed. "It's dangerous at night!"

Peter ignored him. "OPEN UP OPEN UP OPEN U-oof." The door opened suddenly and the stocky boy fell into the building, a tangled mass of limbs. Whoever was at the door chuckled. Joseph could only make out his silhouette, that of a slender boy with long legs.

"Hey Peter-eater. BOYS! Pete's back!" He yelled into the house. Someone laughed, another voice said 'damn kid,' in response. The boy at the door grinned. 

"Hi Soldier," Peter said shyly as he picked himself up. "Sorry I'm late." 

"It's ok, pal," Soldier said, and put a hand on Peter's back to propel him in. 

"Wait!" Peter protested. "Joseph's outside."

"Who?"

"Joseph. He's my friend. Can he stay?" 

Joseph scuffed his shoe on the stone and looked up hopefully. Soldier saw him and shrugged.

"Sure. Come on in, Joseph. Where's 'e from?"

"Chinatown. He ran all the way here," Peter said with wide eyes.

"Without stoppin'?"

"Yep." 

Joseph grinned at the exaggerated tale but didn't speak up. Soldier motioned him forward and he went gratefully into the house.

"You tired?" Soldier asked with a smile. As his mouth moved the corners of his eyes crinkled with already well-defined laugh lines, and Joseph took comfort in the warmth that his molasses colored hair and green eyes offered. His skin was a dark tan, and the tip of a scar peeked through his shirt at his collarbone.

"A little," Joseph said with a shrug.

"You must be darn fast," Soldier said, and led them up the stairs to were a crowd of boys, all ages, sat around a messy bunkroom. 

"Boys, we gotta new 'dition to the house. This is…" Soldier frowned, having already forgotten Joseph's name. "Well, anyway, we gonna call 'em Swifty 'cause Pete says he ran straight from Chinatown ta here!"

Several of the boys laughed, other just rolled their eyes.

"Petey tellin' his tales again?" One asked from his bunk. "Naw, dun answer that. 'course he is."

"Am not!" Peter piped up, but was ignored. 

Soldier left them. "Where's Jazz?" He asked one of the boys playing poker in a corner. The boy shrugged.

"Why're ya askin' me?!" 

"You're his second, Gooser," Soldier said patiently. Gooser grimaced. 

"Yeah, well, tell that ta him. 'E don't talk ta me no more."

Soldier sighed and moved on to talk with someone else.

Joseph crossed his arms and moved closer to Peter, nervous and feeling like he was going to choke. He had never been in such a room before, packed with so many strangers - not for a long time. And he didn't like to remember any of the other times a similar circumstance had come up. 

"DIRTY ROTTEN SNITCH!" 

Joseph whirled at the sound of a yelp and saw a small boy go flying to the floor. Standing above him, seething, was a large, solidly built teen with distant gray eyes and a murderous expression. The boy on the floor scuttled away as fast as possible. Joseph realized with a panic that Peter had disappeared, and quickly found and followed him in hiding behind a bunk. 

Soldier looked pleadingly to Gooser, but the shorter boy just shook his head in exasperation and took up another card. 

"Jazz, wh-"

"The little bastard kid stole my money!" Jazz roared, his face turning a reddish color and spit flying. Soldier sighed.

"Jones wouldn't do th-"

But the young boy from before was already standing and reaching into his pockets. A few odd coins fell from his shaking fingers and hit the floor, a loud sound in the otherwise silent room. Soldier groaned and covered his face with his hands.

"Jones," he moaned. 

Jones took one look at Jazz, still trembling, and ran to hide in an adjacent room. Jazz grumbled to himself and gathered up the money.

"He's a snitch, everyone remember," he told the rest of the room. "Just 'cause he's young don't mean 'e's inna'cent." 

Gooser's barely audible "fold" from the corner was the only thing needed to cut through the tension and restore the room to normal. Joseph felt Peter relax from beside him.

"He's not like that always," Peter whispered to him. "But watch out when 'e's inna bad mood. And don't steal!" Joseph's eyes were as wide as Peter's had been earlier.

"I won't!" He said honestly.

Soldier came to them. "Come on," he said, sounding tired. "Pete, Jazz wants ta meet yer friend. Swifty, Jazz is the leader of us 'hattan newsboys. Whatever he asks ya ta do? Do it. Got that?" Joseph nodded firmly. "Good. He's over there." 

"Let's get this over with," Peter said with a sigh.

-

****

**Author's Note: This story is in no way associated with Misprint's brilliant "Dancing on Razor Blades." I realize it deals with the same theory and actually, Swifty as well, but that's where the similarities end. Go read hers too though, it's fantastic. 


	2. In Loving Memory Part Two

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In Loving Memory: Part Two

__

"At your funeral I will sing the requiem…'

Peter was sweating like a madman. It wasn't just the heat, oh no. The heat only added fuel to the fire, so to speak. Peter was nervous, real nervous, and when he was nervous he became slippery as an eel. Though he couldn't have asked for nicer day for the ceremony, he began to wish that they hadn't held it at noon, when the sun was beating down so unmercifully on his burning shoulders. He fumbled with the speech in his hands, dismayed to see several fingerprints and ink runs where words should have been.

"Shit," he muttered, and put the paper on his lap, wringing his hands anxiously - as if that could make them steady and dry. Mary gave him a scolding look.

In the distance, church bells tolled once, the sound ringing across the expansive cemetery where a modest number of chairs were gathered in rows facing a simple wooden altar. Peter had been sitting quietly for almost an hour, but not a word of the minister's own speech had reached his ears. 

At last the portly old man inclined his head, gather up his book, and took a seat in the front row. Mary said something encouraging to Peter, but his heart was pounding too loudly to him to hear her comfort. He was not a good speaker.

Grasping the rolled up speech in one hand and digging his nails into his palm in the other, Peter stood and walked slowly to the altar, his knees wobbling and steps unsure.

It was a hard faced crowd that met his eyes when he looked out - and "crowd" was certainly an overstatement. A little over a dozen sullen faced men, a few bored looking women, and of course his own Mary to cheer him on. She was smiling when he looked to her, and he felt a little more confident. The minister motioned for him to begin. Peter hastily unrolled the paper and cleared his throat. 

_'Good afternoon. My name is Peter Smith,' _the paper told him. He glanced up again, hands trembling.

"Ah… good afternoon… it uh… it sure is hot, huh?"

The pounding in his ears increased, and he hurriedly wiped his arm across his brow. "I'm sure this is the last place you all want to be," he continued a little haltingly.

_'No! NO!' _His brain screamed. _'That's not what you wrote! You're going to mess it up like always!'_

'I'd known Joseph most all of my life…' The paper continued calmly. Peter ignored both with difficulty. He cleared his throat again, loudly.

"Not only because J- … he's dead, but because it's such a nice… a nice day, and you're stuck here, uhm, listening to some guy drone the afternoon away like…" he trailed off, inwardly wincing. Mary smiled weakly but he felt like he was drowning. 

_'Stop, just stop now,' _his brain begged.

"Well… well maybe I won't deliver a speech. You're all here because you know - knew - Joseph Li. He probably impacted your lives in some way, just like he…" Peter stopped again, feeling a lump rapidly forming in his throat. "Just like he impacted me," he finished with a voice barely above a whisper. The crowd leaned forward to hear in spite of themselves. Peter paused a moment to let his mind wander over the years he had known Joseph, his best friend. He felt a smile come unbidden to his face and his confidence grow with the seconds. He could almost picture Joseph, standing in the back row with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk. Peter let the speech blow off the altar with the next gust of wind.

"Today is May twenty-first," he began, daring to look up at those gathered once more. "It's a beautiful spring day. The first time I met Joseph, it was also a beautiful spring day. 

"I don't remember any parents, siblings, or relatives. I remember an old lady in my life, but whether she was grandmother or nanny I have no idea. When the woman died I was thrown out to the streets, and from then on the only family I knew was that of a crowd of older boys who lodged together in Manhattan. Newsboys, that's what they were, and that's what I became.

"I used to go down to Lower East Side most days to sell, and, being a small boy of only six or so, I was able to do a fair job selling, if only because some of the more wealthy citizens pitied me. I, like most newsies, didn't care how I sold my papers, as long as they were sold. And on this spring day, way back in 1889, after selling, I found my lifelong friend.

"Joseph, or Swifty, as we ended up calling him, was sprawled out in the middle of the road when I came across him. He was asleep. When he came to he told me that he had run all the way from some obscure corner of Chinatown to where we were standing. I was pretty impressed. Because he said that he had no where to go - to run, as they say - I invited him back to the Lodging House. We raced back, of course." A few people cracked smiles.

"Newsboys were brutal. We acted like gangs, fought over 'our land,' had leaders, and seconds, and councils, allies and enemies. Our Lodging House was 'led' by an older boy we called 'Jazz,' a harsh kid whose moods swung as fast as his fist. Jazz required that all the new boarders meet him before they could stay for the night, and I don't think Joseph's first impression of our 'leader' was a very good one. Jazz had just nearly knocked a little kid out for stealing from him when I told him that we had to make introductions…"

-

"Let's get this over with," Peter said with a sigh. Jazz made him nervous and he wasn't exactly looking forward to confronting the boy, especially in the mood he was in just then. He could tell from Swifty's anxious face that he wasn't the only one with those feelings. Soldier watched them from across the room.

Jazz had grabbed one of the few extra chairs and made space at Gooser's poker game, but when he saw Swifty he put his hand down and pushed away, almost upsetting the rickety table in the process. Gooser managed to save it and threw a glare at this back.

Jazz ran a hand through his hair.

"Who's this?"

Peter took a step forward.

"This's Joseph," he said in a trembling sort of voice. "'e ran from Chinatown and I found 'em. We're callin 'em Swifty now." He let out a breath, job done, and lowered his eyes. Jazz looked to Swifty and beckoned him forward.

"Yeah, you. Why'd ya run from 'town?"

"Cause my father was lynched," Swifty said calmly, looking him straight in the eye. Peter's own eyes widened but Jazz didn't flinch. 

"Yeah, well, you better watch out here then," he said, just as calmly. Swifty shrugged and stepped back. Peter gulped and chanced a look up, but Jazz was already engrossed in his game once again.

"When are we supposed to go to bed?" Swifty asked, startling Peter from his thoughts. The two made their way back to the middle of the room.

"Whenever Kloppman comes up," Peter said. He found it easier to speak now. "You should probably ask Soldier where you gonna sleep."

"I'll sleep on the roof if'n I have ta," Swifty said.

"Hopefully it won't come to that," a new voice said from behind them. "Swifty, right?"

Swifty hesitated, then nodded. It wasn't a bad name.

"I'm Maze," the older boy continued. Peter smiled at the tall boy, who winked back. "We don't got any extra beds, but Jones - he's a slight thing, you can fit in with him."

Swifty looked doubtful, but didn't argue. Peter grinned again.

"Hope ya didn't bring 'long any valuables," he whispered. Maze heard this and snickered, leaving a horror-struck boy behind.

"Nah, don' worry," Peter said behind a smirk. "He don't snitch from 'is friends." A pause. "Uh, I don't think so," he added worriedly. "He sleeps in that bottom bunk, the one next ta mine."

"Ok."

"He might not even be sleepin' there tonight. Might still be hiding. From Jazz."

Swifty laughed hollowly and crawled into the bunk as he saw others doing. Peter followed suit as steps on the creaky stairs began to be heard. But the time Kloppman reached the top, every boy was in bed and silent as a mouse. That was one of Jazz's well enforced rules. He couldn't sleep unless it was absolutely quiet, and so everyone in the bunkroom had to breathe their quietest and shift as little as possible so they wouldn't invoke their leader's temper. 

Peter had forgotten to inform Swifty of this, and as soon as Kloppman had disappeared again, Swifty turned to face his friend. Peter heard this and inwardly groaned.

"Psst!"

Peter did his best to ignore the sound, but Swifty had to try again.

"Psst!"

Peter opened his eyes. "Shh." There was a pause this time.

"Peter!?"

He gave in. "What?"

"Tomorrow…"  
"What?"

"What'm I gonna do?"

Peter heard someone - Jazz - turn heavily on his mattress, and hesitated.

"Jus' stay near me."

There was another long pause. "But… what abo-"

Swifty cut himself off at the sound of a thump, feet hitting the floor. Peter shrunk under his cover, pulling it up to his chin and squeezing his eyes shut. Swifty felt his stomach twist, but let his gaze follow the bulky shadow of a figure across the room.

Jazz found his way to their row and stopped next to Swifty. With one quick motion he jerked the younger kid up and onto the floor, his thump and forefinger pinching Swifty's ear in an obviously painful way. Swifty yelped and then bit his tongue. Once his feet hit the floor Jazz had him up against the wall, his other hand under Swifty's chin. Swifty gulped.

Jazz brought his face inches from Swifty's nose, his breathing heavy and eyes flashing. Creaking springs could be heard throughout the room as nearly all the inhabitants turned in their beds to witness the scene sure to unravel.

Swifty felt his cheeks burn at the humiliation and a surge of sudden hatred rise up into his mouth… but he stayed silent and contented himself with refusing to look away from Jazz's eyes. Jazz's hold on his throat prevented any words from being spoken anyway.

Peter had brought the cover slowly down until his eyes and nose were showing, and he watched Jazz with horror and pity for his new friend.

"I don't know how you did things before," Jazz said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't care too."

Swifty just glared in defiance, but his stomach churned all the same, he had never been more embarrassed that he could remember. And in front of all the boys…

"If you want to stay… you listen to me." 

Now Swifty had to frown. What had he done wrong? Peter edged out a little more from under his blanket. 

Jazz let Swifty down after another second and turned to walk away. Still smarting from the scene, Swifty spat at his retreating feet - and Jazz spun and backhanded him fiercely enough to send Swifty reeling and stumbling back onto his bed. He left his blanket and stubbornly refused to face Peter. Peter sighed softly and turned the other way in defeat. He fell asleep quickly.

But Swifty, no, not Swifty. He stayed awake for the better part of the night, staring at the wall, his mouth set and his eyes prickling with evidence of tears he would die before he let fall. Without thinking twice Jazz had made himself an enemy. 

-

Peter fell silent, the somber expression that had been on his face deepening.

"It wasn't just some grudge of a little boy," he said with a sigh. "I doubt Swif-… uhm, Joseph was ever just a little boy. For as long as I knew him he was incredibly mature, too mature. But we pretty much lived on the streets. And I guess you just have to grow up fast."

-

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**Author's Note: I didn't mean to take so long for that update. The updates will mostly come in pairs, I'd think. Please keep reading and reviewing, this is my new baby. -beams-

****

Frogger: Ah yes, love to the Zoolander. I had to put in the 'woo,' you know that!  
**Glimmer-rimmer-rimmer-ree: **Thanks! -feels warm- Jazz is a bit… erm… yeah. We don't like him.  
**Sapphy: **Thank you very much. Haha, yes, the 'why.' It annoys me to no end but it's funny too.  
**Tabloid: **-comforts- I hate killing Pie as much as you do. (cough**WILL**cough) Little Snitchy! Haha. WOO!  
**Poley: **No! No! No peanuts! Can't you see the sign? -points to sign which reads "Please do not feed the mini!newsies."  
**Falco Dahlin: **Yes! Your title. I like it muchly, so THANKS! When I was writing the Weekend Update I noticed you updated Innocence and I flipped out. CRAZY WOMAN! Haha, but it's about time. I'm gonna read it after I type… this.   
**Mondie: **Yes! Everybody Loves Soldier (you know, like a show or something…). I'm not sure if Little!Mush will come into play when he's still technically 'little.' -ponders this-  
**Gothic Author: **Erm. -scratches head- Well… I HAD TO DO IT! I swear. And look! A real live Pie here! -presents Vanna White style-  
**rumor: **Thanks… and… I'm definitely not going to ask. -whistles-  
**Cards: **Whoops! Didn't mean to distract you. Haha. Don't torture Bumlets!Muse TOO much!

Thanks again kids!


	3. First Steps Part One

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First Steps: Part One  
_"We don't stand much chance in this threadbare time."_

Joseph wasted no time in getting to the next piece in his story.

"You've all bought a paper from a newsboy," he said with a small smile. "I know you have. It's so convenient, the little ruffians are on every street corner. And for you frequent buyers, yeah, you've probably gotten ripped off a few times." A few murmurs and good-natured chuckles bounced through the crowd. Joseph nodded slightly. "Don't hate them for it. I learned fast enough that certain tricks and scams were necessary if you wanted to keep a bed in the Lodging House…"

-

Swifty woke before Peter and sat on the edge of his bunk, swinging his feet and waiting expectantly for his friend to get up. Despite his still smarting feelings, Swifty couldn't help but get a little caught up in the busy morning routines. His eyes followed some of the other early risers through their actions curiously, watching as they wove around the bunks and each other with a strange grace, creating paths through the narrow and cramped room with ease. Most of them noticed his presence but ignored him, and Swifty wasn't sure what to think of this. Were they wary of the new kid, or did they just not care?

A creak on the stairs alerted more of the sleepy-eyed boys to an approaching outsider, and Swifty turned on his bunk for a better look. Shortly a worn bowler hat appeared, followed by an equally worn face and brittle body. Mr. Kloppman. 

"Get up!" the old man said as soon as he was fully on the second floor. His voice was surprisingly strong for such a frail looking figure. "Gotta sell them papes!" He made his way among the bunks and continued bellowing. "Up an' attem! Let's go! Sell the papers!"

"Ah, sell yourself, old man!" an angry voice yelled from the opposite end of the room. "Shove 'them papes' down your throat…" Kloppman ignored the retort but several other boys snickered and a few reluctantly dropped from their bunks to stumble blearily into the washroom. Swifty grinned. Not all the boys were that bad. 

"That's Gooser," Peter said from his side with a matching grin. Swifty blinked, startled, and turned again. "He says almost the same things every morning, but it's still funny," he continued.

"Didn't know you were up."

Peter shrugged. "Come on, we have to get ready." 

Swifty jumped up beside Peter and trailed him into the washroom, where a sliver of space before the mirror was vacant. Peter pulled him in. 

"Is that was I think it is?" Soldier turned out to be on Peter's left. He had reached down and cupped Peter's chin in his palm, tipping his head upward. "You see that, Mazey?" Maze looked over from Soldier's other side.

"See what?"

"That."

Maze grinned. "Aw, yeah, I do! You got a little peach fuzz going there, Pete." 

Peter beamed as Swifty leaned in closer to get a look himself. He didn't see anything, and looked to Soldier with a puzzled frown. Maze caught his eye and winked, and Swifty gave up. 

"Lucky," he said to Peter. Peter's smile grew.

"You can use my razor," Maze said, and tossed the said blade to Peter, who caught it with difficulty. Soldier slid some shaving cream his way and Swifty contented himself to splashing a few handfuls of cold water on his face. He looked at his dripping reflection, feeling refreshed, and ran a cautionary hand over his hair, shorn close to the skull. The more he stared at it, the more he hated it and all it represented. A larger form slid into view behind him and gently removed his hand from his head. Swifty watched through the mirror as the boy bent down to ear level.

"Grow it out," he said softly, then continued on his course. The boy's narrow eyes and tawny skin remained imprinted in Swifty's mind, but neither burned like the most startling detail of all - his hair, shaggy and past his ears. Swifty felt a weird twist in his stomach and turned, frantically searching for the older boy - to no avail. 

"Who ya lookin' for?" Peter asked, his eyes never wavering from his foam covered jaw. 

"Dunno," Swifty said. He washed his hands again, still looking over his shoulder. "Dunno who he is."

"That's Lin," Soldier said. 

"What?"

"The guy who just talked to you? Yeah, that's Lin. He's a little… eccentric." 

"Eccentric?" Now Swifty was thoroughly confused. 

"Electric," Peter said wisely. Soldier laughed.

"No, it means… well… he's just a little strange, that's all. A bit of a loner."

"What's wrong with that?" Swifty experienced some trouble drying his hands on a damp towel.

"Nothing," Soldier cleaned off his own razor and put it away. "He's just not that friendly, is all." 

There was a splash followed by a startled yelp, and the whole crew standing at the mirror turned to see Gooser stick his head into the washbasin for a second time. 

"Good morning, sunshine!" someone crowed from across the room. Gooser made a rude gesture that was met by more laughter. He raised his soaked head and was about to shake it dry when Jazz passed by and dunked him again. The washroom roared. 

-

"I didn't have the best experiences in my first night at the Lodging House, certainly for a few hours I didn't think the pay was worth it. But the morning brought me a whole new perspective, and I realized that the bad guys of the group were the minority, not the other way around."

Joseph's smile turned bittersweet. "Opinions. They can change as fast as money changes hands."

-

"That's the Distribution Office, right through those gates," Peter said. He and Swifty walked near the back of the Lodging House pack along Newspaper Row, Peter looking bored while Swifty frequently stumbled over himself in an effort to see everything at once. He had never been this deep into Manhattan before. Peter's next question brought him back to the task at hand - namely walking.

"You have money, right?" 

Swifty dug his hands into his pockets and scooped up a few coins.

"Yep," he said triumphantly. 

"Ok." Peter took one of the coins from his small pile and dropped it back into Swifty's pocket.

"Save this one for tonight. You gottta pay for the Lodging House, and that way even if you don't do well today you can still have a bed." He replaced another coin. "An' save this one for lunch." Peter counted Swifty's remaining fortune with a furrowed brow. "Ok. You can buy… uhm… twenty papes. Two papes for a penny, and then you have leftovers." 

Swifty nodded, absorbing this information. He pocketed the few odd pennies residing with his prize dime and got in line with the other boys as they all entered the gate to the Distribution Office. 

"I buy two papers for a penny," Swifty repeated.

"Papes," Peter said with a grin.

"Ok, papes. Who do I sell 'em to?"

Peter shrugged. "Anyone. Everyone. You sell one pape for a penny." 

"One pape for a penny."

"Yup." Peter faced forward and whistled softly to himself, studying the reactions of those who had already bought their papers. "It's an ok headline," he told Swifty, who paused before launching a few more questions.

"What's that mean?" 

Peter looked exasperated, but Swifty couldn't remember having had it explained to him before, so he pressed on. "I mean - I know what a headline is. But how does it matter?"

"Look, if you get a good headline, you sell more papes. If it's bad, you don't sell as many."

Swifty remained lost. "And?"

"That's it."

Someone snickered from behind them. 

"First time, kid?" the low voice was directed to Swifty, and he turned uncertainly. The boy in back of him had a low, gravelly voice, and a thick frame to match it. His boyish face and clean-cut brown hair only complicated the picture. Swifty nodded, fascinated by this new acquaintance. Peter looked equally mystified. 

"Breggy?" He squeaked. 'Breggy' grinned.

"Hey, Petey." He turned his attention back to Swifty. "Don't sweat it," he said. "What Petey is trying to tell you is this: people like read the news, but they don't like it that much. The headline is the most important part in the newspaper, and it's going to be the thing they read first. If the headline's boring, they'll think that the rest of the paper is boring so they won't bother buying it from you." He took a breath. "Got it so far?"

"I think so."

"If the headline is exciting, they're going to want to read all about it. That's where we, the newsboys come in. If the headline isn't exciting enough, we make it so."

"We lie?"

"Nah. We just spice up the truth, make things a little more fun and earn us some pocket money in the process. You know?"

Swifty shrugged. "I guess." 

-

"As it turns out, guessing was the last thing I did on my first day of selling. With Peter there to guide me with his incredible patience and knowledge about the newsie's craft, I learned quick. Ok, so, really I just learned quick while Peter tried to teach me all he knew in half formed sentences and strange phrases. But that wasn't the important part. By lunchtime I had twenty cents in my pocket. I could survive."

-

****

**Author's Note: Yay! I love writing this, but _man _I have not had that much time to write recently. I'm getting back into it, though, and this weekend I'm going down to Washington DC to visit my sis in college, and I plan to get a bunch of this story written down there. Wish me luck! Thanks to all reviewers, I appreciate it so much!

****

Gip: Thanks! Woo! Woo works in so many forms. So much fun.  
**Tabitha Sly: **Shadies I love that penname. And I love the word 'brill.' Glad you're enjoying it!  
**Gothitica: **Ah, but of course Swifty had to be dead too. And Above These Righteous Gods? I really really want to update it! I just need to get myself to sit still long enough to go over all the notes again and get working!  
**Tabs: **I'm just gonna sit here and watch you dance for awhile…  
**Sappy: **Haha, I love how you go from confusion to "grrr Jazz!" Jazz is alright. He's not as evil as he seems.  
**Falco: **I feel so bad now, I still haven't caught up on 'Innocence.' Ark! Will do that, promise! You didn't suck, you just improved a LOT.  
**Glimmah: **Glad you liked the nickname, I try my best. -watches as Jazz hightails it after Glim- Whoops.  
**Cards: **You know that if I knew anymore Oliver Twist quotes I'd answer you back with one. But here's some more, anyway!  
**Sita-chan: **Yay for Tabs, my unofficial, part-time plugger! Er. Well, in this one instance. Yeeah. Glad you like it.  
**Misprint: **I usually shiver and edge away when you laugh like that. Pie as a 'Joseph,' eh? I can't see it.  
**rumor: **I second that yay! Of course he rambles, because I ramble, and Pie can't be eloquent, it just doesn't work. He's gotta ramble, he's just gotta! And an enemy in Swifty is never desirable - I enjoy making my version of Swifty quite vengeful. Fwah hah. Thanks for the story, no more confusion on my part!

Keep 'em coming, guys!


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